They're rare." Amory glanced through the issue.
"Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he ?" "Yeah." "Listen to this! My God! "'A serving lady speaks: Black velvet trails its folds over the day, White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames, Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind, Pia, Pompia, come--come away--' "Now, what the devil does that mean ?" "It's a pantry scene." "'Her toes are stiffened like a stork's in flight; She's laid upon her bed, on the white sheets, Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint, Bella Cunizza, come into the light!' "My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about?
I swear I don't get him at all, and I'm a literary bird myself." "It's pretty tricky," said Kerry, "only you've got to think of hearses and stale milk when you read it.

That isn't as pash as some of them." Amory tossed the magazine on the table.
"Well," he sighed, "I sure am up in the air.

I know I'm not a regular fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn't.

I can't decide whether to cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the Golden Treasury and be a Princeton slicker." "Why decide ?" suggested Kerry.

"Better drift, like me.